Death Note
by Diabeetus
Summary: Poor Butters can't even get a suicide right.


Butters sat at the table solemnly, mindlessly scribbling with a crayon, a stroke in this direction and another stroke in that one. His mind was somewhere else at the moment. Lately he'd found that coloring was all that could take him out of misery and bring him to a happier place. If he hadn't such a great ability to blur and distort life into a reality of his own, he'd have crumbled much sooner than this. In fact, it was a miracle that the crumbling had just begun, after so many years. His whole life he'd been treated as an underdog. No matter what he did, people still laughed at and ridiculed him for no good reason. Even his own happy place had begun to reject him. Reality seeped in and tainted all the good bits that remained. He'd surely give those Goth kids a run for their money, if only they knew how miserable _he _was. You see, his parents didn't love him, nor did anyone else it seemed. He was nothing but a joke to them and his so called "friends" at school. A misfit, a deformed shadow of a being whom no person had remorse or feelings towards. Whenever he tricked himself into believing that they did, he'd only get knocked down again with more reasons to distrust.

He paused his crayon strokes for a moment to scratch at the itchy cut on his elbow, another one from being unsuspectingly tripped the other day at school. He never understood why the boys liked to push him around so much. They'd already won his last shred of self esteem, but maybe it was just too satisfying for them to push him until he went crazy. And boy howdy, he'd lost it.

He crumpled the crayon in his hands, shattering and breaking it onto the carpet in pieces. His father appeared in the doorframe of his room just then, suspiciously watching what he'd done. It seemed like he was always nearby, ready to chastise Butters for something or anything. Just like a lurking hawk. "Butters! What do you think you're doing, crumbling crayons on my carpet?" he yelled. "Keep up this rotten behavior, and you'll go to hell!"

_'Hell would be a much more comfortable place than this_.' the boy muttered under his breath. "What did you say?" his father questioned.

"Nothing, Dad." he responded, packaging up his box of crayons and putting them back on their shelf. Mr. Stotch eyed him like a gargoyle. "Nothing is right. You clean up that mess right now or else you'll stay grounded all week, mister!"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Butters sat hunched on the floor against a row of lockers, waiting for the morning school bell to arrive. He always preferred waiting in the middle of an empty hallway to standing in the front of the school like everyone else did. It just saved a lot of drama that way. Besides, today was an important day, one where he needed to focus. Most days weren't very important to him anymore, they just melded together like a pointless accumulation of time and space. But this one felt _different_. It was his only chance. He musn't mess it up by letting his own mind or any other kind of pressure stop him.

He opened his locker and shoved the backpack inside carefully. After quickly glancing around to ensure he was alone, he zipped open the small bag and peeked inside, running a hand over something cold and steely. It made him feel powerful, yet hopeless at the same time.

Despite getting to school early, Butters had somehow managed to get lost in his own maniacal thoughts and plans and didn't even hear the bell ring. He just arrived in class minutes after it had rung. As soon as he entered the room, the teacher scowled at him for interrupting another pointless speech, and instead turned to waste her time on interrogating him as usual. The students giggled as he stood in front of the classroom, shuffling one foot in front of the other. "Young man, this late attendency every day is unacceptable. You'd better have a good excuse and a late pass this time! Don't come back until you do, you hear?"

He said nothing and trudged out of the classroom, ignoring some loud whispers as he walked out. He headed straight for his locker.

* * *

"Hey, dork face." a voice called from behind. Butters cringed at the sound of that voice, but avoided it and kept walking straight ahead anyway.

"Asshole, don't ignore me! Got any money?" the voice pestered again, this time getting closer. Again, when he didn't acknowledge it, Butters felt himself being pulled around by a forceful tug on his shoulder. His tormentor expected him to cower, but was confused by the firm look across his face. It wasn't fear or cowardice, it was something different this time. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Butters looked him straight in the face as if to say "I ain't scared of you."

Cartman backed away a bit. "Give me your lunch money, fag." he spat, a little less threatening than usual.

This time, instead of running away, Butters took another step closer. He grabbed a wad of Cartman's jacket and pushed the fat boy into a locker. Before he could retaliate, Butters reached into his pocket and pulled out the shiny magnum. He held it straight against Cartman's face.

"_This'll be the last time you ever bother me_." he warned in a grave voice. He watched as the other boy's eyes went wide, and then squeezed shut, as if expecting something painful. He opened an eye again, looking around for signs of help. This time, Cartman was the one scared of Butters.

"Butters, don't do this. Remember all the good times we had?" he begged. "I don't want to die!" he cried dramatically, hoping that someone nearby would hear it. Unfortunately, no one was in the hallways at this time. "_What a baby"_, Butters thought.

"Don't flatter yourself, Eric. I'd have to be _crazy_ to take you with me to hell. I never want to see your ugly face again! I-in fact, I hope you _never _die." he spat, holding the gun closer to Cartman's face. Cartman looked confused now, but still frightened nonetheless. There was a crazy side to Butters that he didn't want to take any chances with. If he just kept it cool and worked his charm, he could get out of this alive. Or at least, with a dick in tact. He was more afraid of Butters' inability to aim a gun than anything else.

"Butters..how about we make a deal. _You _let _me_ go, and I'll let you carry on with whatever senseless little crimes you're thinking of committing. I won't even tell anyone about it, alright?" he pleaded, putting on an extra sympathetic voice. "I'm sorry I hassled you for your lunch money. Now, _please_ let me go?"

Butters saw right through the kind act. "I don't think so! I want all of that lunch money you stole from me and everybody else." he demanded. The other boy's brows furrowed. "Butters, are you seriously-" he began to protest, but after feeling the gun poke his cheek, he gave up. "Jesus, fine! I don't have it with me now, though."

"Don't lie, Eric! I saw all that money stashed in your locker. Now you best go get it before I- I do somethin' dangerous!" he yelled. Butters swore he saw Cartman almost break out in laughter at that point, and he pushed the gun to the back of his head. Cartman didn't argue, he just went to his locker while Butters kept it aimed on him. He started on the lock combination, muttering angrily.

When the locker door opened, a pile of cash almost fell out. "_Hamburgers!_" Butters thought. "_I didn't know he had this much!_"

He wasted no time in grabbing all the money, while Cartman watched in horror as if watching a child get taken away from him. Then, Butters did something absolutely unforgivable. He took the pile of money and ripped the dollars into little pieces, letting them fall to the floor in shreds. Then he took his foot and stomped on the pieces to ensure their destruction. Cartman fell to his knees in a panic. "No! Nooo! What the hell did you do that for?"

"You're better off without it." Butters said bleakly. It were _almost _as if a part inside of him still cared for Cartman's sake. He knew that greed wouldn't get him anywhere in life, so in a sense, he'd done a _good_ thing. Not that he wouldn't still be going to hell, but he wasn't really concerned about that.

Cartman gritted his teeth. Whether Butters had a gun in his hands or not, he didn't care. He was angry. Way angrier than he'd ever been before. _Nobody _messed with his money like that and got away with it. His eyes gleamed and pushed himself off the floor, glaring at Butters. "I'm going to kill you!" he choked.

"Eric, calm down." Butters aimed the gun up at him once more, backing away, but Cartman just advanced on him. "D-don't make me shoot.."

"Screw you! You can't shoot! I'll kill you with my bare hands!" he yelled, letting rage taking over him. He made it closer towards Butters and, while looking away, Butters fired the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the hallways with a loud pop.

Butters opened his eyes. Cartman had fallen to the floor, and was clutching his..groin? Oh, no. No, no no.

He was on the floor, grunting in pain, unable to choke out any words. That was when Butters knew he'd really messed this up. The poor boy couldn't even succeed at his own suicide without shooting someone else in the dick.

Maybe this was all a sign of some sorts. Maybe, just maybe..he _wasn't_ supposed to take his own life? Perhaps he was put here on Earth with poor luck and terrible social skills for a reason. A reason, he just couldn't yet understand.

"I'm not going to do it!" he yelled. He smiled, looking at the gun in front of him, then dropped it to the floor in surrender. He wouldn't be needing this thing anymore. Maybe he _could _give life another shot.

And another shot at life was, quite literally, what he got. The magnum hit the floor with a loud bang and suddenly, he felt something rip through his pants. There was a sharp pain in his own groin, and it stung through him like the worst pain in the world. So bad that he fell backwards on the hard floor coughing. After that, everything went black. "_Oh.. hamburgers." _was the last coherent thought he could remember.

* * *

Butters awoke some lapses of time later in a completely different place. It was white all around, and his vision was too blurry to distinguish anything. Could this be...heaven?

He felt a sharp tingling in his arm, and looked down to see something strange hanging out of it. But before he could touch it, it was ripped out quickly by someone else. They stood above him like a looming tower. They didn't look too friendly, either. "Butters, you have got some _major_ explaining to do when we get out of here!" the figure yelled.

Oh no. This couldn't be heaven. Maybe it was hell.

His vision returned a little, and he could see the outline of his father standing next to him. A doctor came through the curtained partition just then, looking down at a clipboard and then at Butters. He scratched the back of his neck nervously.

"Mr. Stotch, I'm afraid we have some bad news.." he began. "We accidentally replaced your son's penis with a hotdog. Apparently, one of our doctors was on lunch break during the surgery, and had a momentary lapse in judgment. It was a terrible mix-up. We're very sorry."

Butters eyes' widened. He felt dead again. The doctor pulled a note out of his coat pocket and handed it to him. "Here little boy, this note was for you."

He wearily lifted his head up and read it. "_You're dead, Butters. __I'm going to kill you and feed you to your parents. -Cartman_."

So he _was_ dead.


End file.
